Like chainsaws and the burly men attached to them had once done to the eucalypts that reigned here, the highway sliced through the belly of the west. Concrete walls cut the sight lines between the highway and the houses, giving little sense of the busy lives or the hopes of the people who lived behind the barrier -- then again this barrier was a crafty way to hide those not so busy, those born into an anthem of doomed hope , those in need of barriers themselves . People like Alfred Ingham, 56, who cancelled out his worries with whiskey and cigars after his doctor had informed him his lung cancer had metastasised, or Diana Weaver,15, whose anger at her parents' divorce turned reflexive and sinister, scars on her arms attesting to the growing wound within her. Or Genevieve Chiswick (poor Genevieve), age 28, who woke up one morning to discover her apartment half-empty and a post-it on the TV which read "off to queensland dont try to bring me into ur pregnancy bullshit u kno u wer askin for it that night anyway and this fatherhood crap scares the shit outta me." The fact that Genevieve's life was now in pieces did not prevent her from giving birth to her baby girl Aphrodite -- though life, in its glorious mystery has a way of taking as well as giving, and like the eucalypts that passed only to give birth to the highway that foreshadowed its surrounding residents, Genevieve too passed, leaving Aphrodite to fend for herself in the belly of the west.
While Aphrodite's fate at first seem to sing the anthem of the people surrounding her, by 30, she knew she would not be just another back-up singer. Aphrodite would be her people's conductor -- she would rewrite the song of the west. The west. Aphrodite knew all too well the connotations that arose in people's minds when she let slip where she was from. She loathed the ways they sneered at "the west". She dared them to walk the streets alone at night far from their cozy homes in San Souci or Mosman. Aphrodite was thankful she grew up where she did and how she did, it gave her an understanding and appreciation of the world that these rich pricks could never have. It gave her an edge, an advantage, an insight that kept her grounded. But she was far from the west now, far form the yellow glow that dotted pot hole pitted roads in the evening, the cold morning buzz from the mechanical trees that plagued neighbourhood parks and paddocks. That buzz, Aphrodite reminisced, it was always heard best on mornings that preceded rain-filled evenings. Aphrodite was far from the cat calls of angst ridden teenagers who knew no better, simply filling their afternoons with video games and mindless vandalism. Far from the screeching tires of Thursday nights and bellowing sirens on Saturday.
It wasn't all cops and robbers though, and that was probably one of the things that Aphrodite hated most about the sneers and sniggers her hometown brought to peoples faces. Aphrodite grew up learning that it was in the darkest of corners that shone the brightest of lights. In all her travels, across Europe, south east Asia and America, she had never met with more altruism than she had in her own hometown. Even the most collectivist of societies would be given a run for their money by the people of "the west".
Suddenly, the clinking sound of a waitress placing a long black on the table snapped Aphrodite out of her reverie. The waitress smiled at her as Aphrodite scooped up the cup in both hands.
"Merci," said Aphrodite. The waitress's smiled broadened and she replied in French before flitting away. Sipping on her coffee, Aphrodite returned to her reverie. She jotted down notes on some tattered looking foolscap paper. Pausing for a moment, she spun the pen in and around her fingers hypnotically, a figure eight of flashing metal and flesh, just as she would all those years ago when she first started at 'The Herald". All the trendy new journos now were packing iPads or some fancy notebook computer. Not Aphrodite; this pen was her lifeblood when she was on the road. Nine carat gold pocket clip, ink would last up to a month before it would start to leave ghostly letters on the page and an accompanying memory of the day she received that would never run out of charge. The rhythm of its spin around Aphrodite's fingers began to cause a blur, the cold steel and gold reassured her of its hardiness as she slipped deeper into her reverie, recalling the day the pen came to be hers.
8 years earlier..
Aphrodite pulled at her hair as she stared frustrated at the blank screen. She had been allocated the puff piece section 'weird and the strange', all the new kids on the block copped the crap sections at first until they proved themselves worthy to tackle the major headlines. In this case, Aphrodite had just got back from spending a week in Arizona investigating a reported UFO crash landing, but after what she had seen she couldn't bring herself to report on it; lest she be the laughing stock of the pressroom and be forever sent to chase ghosts and ghouls. How the hell was she to lie about what she had seen, or not have seen for that matter - when journalistic integrity was everything to her she thought to herself. The empty glow of the screen was infuriating her, she needed a pen and paper - Aphrodite couldn't stand the digital revolution that was taking place, all the glaring and humming of computer screens and cold machines stifled her.
Aphrodite began rummaging through her desk drawers and the clutter surrounding her, pulling out some foolscap she searched further for a pen muttering under her breath to herself.
"Need a pen" a cool voice cut in.
"Not from you I don't. Go away Ben." She didn't have time for this! Where was that bloody pen? She kept rummaging, trying to ignore just how close Ben was standing.
While Aphrodite's fate at first seem to sing the anthem of the people surrounding her, by 30, she knew she would not be just another back-up singer. Aphrodite would be her people's conductor -- she would rewrite the song of the west. The west. Aphrodite knew all too well the connotations that arose in people's minds when she let slip where she was from. She loathed the ways they sneered at "the west". She dared them to walk the streets alone at night far from their cozy homes in San Souci or Mosman. Aphrodite was thankful she grew up where she did and how she did, it gave her an understanding and appreciation of the world that these rich pricks could never have. It gave her an edge, an advantage, an insight that kept her grounded. But she was far from the west now, far form the yellow glow that dotted pot hole pitted roads in the evening, the cold morning buzz from the mechanical trees that plagued neighbourhood parks and paddocks. That buzz, Aphrodite reminisced, it was always heard best on mornings that preceded rain-filled evenings. Aphrodite was far from the cat calls of angst ridden teenagers who knew no better, simply filling their afternoons with video games and mindless vandalism. Far from the screeching tires of Thursday nights and bellowing sirens on Saturday.
It wasn't all cops and robbers though, and that was probably one of the things that Aphrodite hated most about the sneers and sniggers her hometown brought to peoples faces. Aphrodite grew up learning that it was in the darkest of corners that shone the brightest of lights. In all her travels, across Europe, south east Asia and America, she had never met with more altruism than she had in her own hometown. Even the most collectivist of societies would be given a run for their money by the people of "the west".
Suddenly, the clinking sound of a waitress placing a long black on the table snapped Aphrodite out of her reverie. The waitress smiled at her as Aphrodite scooped up the cup in both hands.
"Merci," said Aphrodite. The waitress's smiled broadened and she replied in French before flitting away. Sipping on her coffee, Aphrodite returned to her reverie. She jotted down notes on some tattered looking foolscap paper. Pausing for a moment, she spun the pen in and around her fingers hypnotically, a figure eight of flashing metal and flesh, just as she would all those years ago when she first started at 'The Herald". All the trendy new journos now were packing iPads or some fancy notebook computer. Not Aphrodite; this pen was her lifeblood when she was on the road. Nine carat gold pocket clip, ink would last up to a month before it would start to leave ghostly letters on the page and an accompanying memory of the day she received that would never run out of charge. The rhythm of its spin around Aphrodite's fingers began to cause a blur, the cold steel and gold reassured her of its hardiness as she slipped deeper into her reverie, recalling the day the pen came to be hers.
8 years earlier..
Aphrodite pulled at her hair as she stared frustrated at the blank screen. She had been allocated the puff piece section 'weird and the strange', all the new kids on the block copped the crap sections at first until they proved themselves worthy to tackle the major headlines. In this case, Aphrodite had just got back from spending a week in Arizona investigating a reported UFO crash landing, but after what she had seen she couldn't bring herself to report on it; lest she be the laughing stock of the pressroom and be forever sent to chase ghosts and ghouls. How the hell was she to lie about what she had seen, or not have seen for that matter - when journalistic integrity was everything to her she thought to herself. The empty glow of the screen was infuriating her, she needed a pen and paper - Aphrodite couldn't stand the digital revolution that was taking place, all the glaring and humming of computer screens and cold machines stifled her.
Aphrodite began rummaging through her desk drawers and the clutter surrounding her, pulling out some foolscap she searched further for a pen muttering under her breath to herself.
"Need a pen" a cool voice cut in.
"Not from you I don't. Go away Ben." She didn't have time for this! Where was that bloody pen? She kept rummaging, trying to ignore just how close Ben was standing.